


Struck at First Sight

by ahhhhrexa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FC Barcelona, Falling In Love, Football | Soccer, Friendship/Love, M/M, PepLucho, Real Madrid CF, Spain National Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9178891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahhhhrexa/pseuds/ahhhhrexa
Summary: The first time they met was at the Bernabéu. The most anticipated match of season, El Clasico, was underway. Two teams against each other, bearing different values, inspiring different kinds of people were going to be on the pitch fighting for dominance.Pep Guardiola meets Luis Enrique for the first time.A one-shot companion piece to the first chapter of The Color of My Heart





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a companion piece to another story of mine from Lucho's point of view called: The Color of My Heart

The night sky had very few stars, little clouds lingered above from the light rain, and the breeze was cool. The pitch below was long and wide, slightly damp and sleek; it looked like it could engulf anyone that comes onto it.

 

Pep barely acknowledged the insults thrown at his team from few fans above the dugout. He heard the other Madridistas’ clearly, cries powerful and piercing, singing along with their anthem. They had so much energy, all on their feet holding their part of the motif.

 

He cared little for what it said instead he brought his eyes to the upper seats, high into a corner, where a pocketful of Cules are. He smiled at them, ears keen enough to hear wisps of their singing to their beloved anthem of El Cant de Barca.

 

Pride was the word he would use when it comes to wearing the blaugrana kit. He could hear his parents telling him that Barcelona will treat him right, that Catalonia is home no matter what Spain says. Being a part of this club, in the first team, was such a dream. He imagined the hordes of people waiting for him and the team if they are successful on winning the game.

 

The very first Clásico as a first team player, and not just that, but as a starter was such an accomplishment. Hard work did pay off and with this he got to enjoy moments like these.

 

He muttered a Catalan poem to himself. The words were easily said for his family had known them for years. He thought back on those who stood here before him, unique in that they believed in independence, that Catalunya isn’t Spain. Here he was on enemy territory, a man of his people and of his country, doing what he could to lift up the spirits of all Catalan.

 

He was ready. 

  
…

 

The match went by quicker than expected. He moved from one end of the pitch to the other, always requesting for the ball to be given to him, always pointing at where his contemporaries should go. He stayed on the move, fresh and driven by the purpose (of his Catalan feeling, more than likely).

 

It ended in a draw.  


He took a slow breath in and then it out as he looked up at the score line one more time. They have managed to scrape away a point. He wasn’t disappointed. The team was close to being acclimated to the philosophy of their coach. There was a bunch of time left before the league champion is crowned.

 

Surprisingly, his heart was steady, undeterred by the amount of minutes he had played. The only indicator of how much activity was done had been the sweat that matted his arm and leg hair down. He didn’t feel tired rather he was rejuvenated thanks to having participated in this historic match. He knew that he could play another one again this night.

 

“Next time we’ll get them.” Hristov said, putting his hands on Pep’s shoulders. His eyes were filled with determination, a bit crazed by his fierce competitive spirit. “We’ll get them next time, I promise.”

 

Pep didn’t doubt him, knowing fully well that this was only the beginning. They all felt like greatness was at their fingertips. Their coach, the famed Johan Cruyff, had instilled such confidence in them, such belief that they trusted that when the season ends that they’ll have a title.

 

They heard a loud chorus from up above in the bleachers. Hristov removed his hands from Pep as the familiar lyrics to their club’s anthem rings out. They along with their other teammates turned to their fans, and proceeded to wave at them. The bass tone from Hristov’s lips was a bit jarring in its roughness, but no less passionate than Pep’s baritone voice. Oh how good it felt to be blaugrana!

 

There were some Madrid players approaching. He exchanged a look with his teammates before stepping forward to greet them. Their words aren’t fully heard by him when they arrive. He saw their lips move but no sound matched them.

 

He could see Hristov’s eyes flashing wildly as the man known as The Vulture shook his hand. Pep didn’t flinch when a Madridista hugged him (he thought as child that he would) but still, he didn’t reciprocate the hug. He just gave a polite nod back and pulled himself away with ease not willing to let his crest touch the vast whiteness on the other man’s kit.

 

It wasn’t like he hated the people wearing those stark white jerseys. He knows some of these men, played with them in friendlies as teammates. They were good men. He just couldn’t look at the white and not think of his country (the country other countries ignore). 

 

….

 

Somehow he had successfully torn himself away from Hristov and the others. He spotted Zubi, still on the other end, where the other Madrid players were. One foot forward, and repeat, his legs strode from where he had been as his arms swung by his sides, and he breathing started to pick up again. He had played a Clasico. 

 

He survived a Clasico.

 

Before reaching Adoni, his shoulders knock against someone. He saw bits of black with sheer white on whoever it was. For a second he thought about continuing to walk, not interested in speaking to a Madridista one on one, but for sportsmanship he stopped in his tracks. 

 

He went over what he would say. A simple apology would do. He’d avoid the white kit, look directly in the other man’s eyes, and say sorry. Three seconds gone and he would leave without letting the other speak. He wanted to celebrate with his team not dawdle around. 

 

Pep turned around, ready to swiftly apologize, but when he saw whom was there the words disappear.  A young man with curly black hair, full cheeks, and a strong jaw stood there looking back at him with dark, stormy pools for eyes. Those eyes were full of something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, maybe something like the danger of a hurricane whirled in them. 

 

There was this uncomfortable energy the man had in the white kit. The sleeves looked lopsided and the shorts too big, and it looked, maybe for a second, that he had his hands on the bottom of his shirt, ready to tear it off from his body. Never had he seen a man look so furious, lost even, wearing a kit.  


He wouldn’t ever claim to feel uncomfortable wearing blaugrana. Those were his colors, having been with them since birth, and the jersey always felt like silk on his skin, smooth and soft, always hugging him never burning him. A Barca jersey would be the jersey for him, and nothing else.  


If he were lucky, maybe by some design, he would stay in this kit forever. He wished to never have to put on another team’s colors.

 

For some reason, he didn’t see this man wearing the Blanco clothing for very long. A man like this, so clearly set in danger, won’t stay long in a place he appeared to not to want to be in. No, the storm that brewed in there would carry him away one day.

 

Pep felt his lips curl into a half smile. Something about this man intrigued him. It could have been the way he stood, tall with his chin held up, untapped energy pouring out from his aura. Maybe it was the silly satisfaction he took in seeing this man look almost disgusted to be in all white. Or by the way an almost mischievous curl fell down on the forehead, which added a strangely innocent flair to the man.

 

Out of nowhere, his heart started to beat - no, it pounded as if it had been directly injected with adrenaline. He did his best to control his features, stopped his lips from parting, even while he felt his cheeks warm and his body stir. It was as if his body had been jolted awake.

 

Pep felt himself stand up taller than before, puffing his chest out a bit, getting to the same height as the stranger. His heart continued to pound rapidly as he quickly scanned the other man’s entire body. While his lean and lanky frame disguised his fitness, the Blanco had no such problem. Rather his body was ripped (the jersey covered the abs but he knew they were there), thighs thick, calves particularly sturdy, arms taut. A certain type of rawness was there, mysterious in its capacity, and it screamed out from the man’s body.

 

Everything that he saw gave him the urge to shake.

 

The name of the man, through the files in his head from extensive research, was recalled. This was Luis Enrique Martinez, a child of Gijon, a man of Austrian. He had about two years playing for the first team of Sporting Gijón before signing a massive five-year contract with the Merengues. He didn’t start the game though, which was a bit surprising to Pep, for the man was gifted at almost any position. The innate talent was there, and with good coaching, he knew it could only flourish.

 

“Good game, I guess.” Pep finally said, the words finally finding him. He slowly extended his arm out. An odd rush of desire to touch Enrique arose as if those dark eyes had hooks in them that sunk deep into his psyche. He found that he could look into those eyes without getting tired of them. Recognition of his attraction surfaced, his eyes widened a bit at it before returning to their previous state. “We both managed to salvage a point.”

 

Following through with his impulse, he placed his hand down on Enrique’s elbow. The moment his fingers touched the other man’s skin he felt a shiver run down his spine. He pushed through the little speck of hesitation he had, and with his muscles tensed, and heart still pounding; he squeezed the other man's elbow softly.

 

The sensation of the man’s skin on his was exhilarating. An electric kind of warmth shot through from Enrique’s skin into him, coursed through his veins, and stirred him once more. It was like he had discovered the concept of touch for the first time. He didn’t want to let go.

 

How could he let go?

 

He could explore where touch led them. They wouldn’t be just a Cule or a Madridista. It would be just him as Pep and the other just as Luis. The possibilities, the places they could go, were endless. All of it would stay, and he would see Enrique’s stunning eyes always.

 

Where did this all come from?

 

He blinked once as confusion crept in. He saw Enrique watching him, a curious glint of something in his eyes, and he felt the muscles tense even more. He strengthened his half smile, careful to not let it morph into something else.

 

He felt like his whole world was opening up, that there were things he had yet to find out. There’s a mystery wrapped up in danger between them. He was intent on getting the answers.

 

“I’ll see you at Camp Nou,” he said carefully, making sure not to convey the intrigue he felt nor show how drawn he was to the other man. 

 

Pep reluctantly let go. He instantly missed the feeling of his hands on Enrique’s skin. The loss off contact seemed to have stunned the other man as well, and he saw Enrique’s eyes flash; a flicker of something crossed his eyes. He couldn’t place it, but it made his stomach flutter.

 

He forced himself to turn around, and walked away. His legs felt heavy, heart pounded away, and his lungs felt desperate for air. He looked at his hand, rubbing his fingers together as he reminisced the feeling of when he felt the spark between him and Enrique as soon as they had touched.

 

He didn’t answer his teammates when they came to him as he walked toward the tunnel. Hristov’s arm went around his shoulders and Adoni looped his arm through his. They chatted with each other as he bent his head down, ignoring the longing to turn around.

 

The hymn of Barcelona started to be sung by him, quiet and low, as he pressed his hand against his lips.

 

A vision of Luis Enrique in blaugrana materializes in his mind, and he’s right there standing next to him.

 


End file.
